Perfect White
by SydnieWren
Summary: Shikamaru struggles to meet all of his personal and professional obligations after Asuma's passing. Meanwhile, Neji struggles with duties within his clan. Together, they confront the future. ShikaNeji. Hard M.


**Hi all! This is going to be multichapter, though I'm not sure how long. This is my first time writing Shika/Neji, so I hope I do alright with the characters. There is some fiddling with timelines here because I wanted to write during Kurenai's pregnancy. **

**Warnings: sexuality, incest.**

**Disclaimer: don't own.**

* * *

"Can't believe you're gonna win just because I lost my left lance."

Shikamaru drops a pawn on the board and squares the piece with a lazy nudge of his fingertip.

"I'm not," he replies flatly. "I would've won anyway."

"It's not over yet," Chouji grouses.

"It's pretty much over."

Shikamaru yawns and reclines on the heels of his hands. Chouji pauses lengthily to ponder his move, and in the quiet Shikamaru looks out over his family's garden.

Summer is ending. All season, Kurenai's belly has grown steadily, ripening and swelling along with the season. And she, too, has changed: as Asuma's death stretches further into the past, her mourning has given way to a subtle but constant sobriety. Presently, matters await on a precipice: the grass just beyond Shikamaru's verandah remains plump and green, but there is brownish uncertainty in the thinner blades, and at night, the wind bears in whispers of a chill.

"You're right," Chouji sighs finally. "It's over."

"Aa."

A familiar twinge rises in the joints of his elbows, and rolls upward to his shoulders. Shikamaru is just beginning to lower himself to his back when Chouji stops him.

"We should go check mission control," he suggests, planting his hands on his knees in preparation to stand.

"Is there anything pending?" Shikamaru peers blearily up at the hand offered to him.

"Don't know," Chouji grins, "that's why we need to check."

With a grudging sigh, Shikamaru takes his friend's hand and pulls himself to his feet, casting a long shadow across the polished wooden flooring of the verandah.

The two fall into an easy, practiced pace alongside one another. Already the village streets have begun to show signs of the season: no longer do fruit and vegetable stands remain open into the firefly-dappled evening hours; their cargo has grown sparse, and in its place dried and sweetened fruits have arrived. School has recently returned to session, and as they stride toward the mission control center, children laden with backpacks dart around them in chattering crowds.

They round a familiar corner. A woman emerges from the Yamanaka flower shop bearing a bouquet full of mums and marigolds, and Chouji moves aside graciously to let her pass between them.

"This year's gone by too fast," he laments when they drew together again.

"Aa," Shikamaru agrees.

He thinks often of bringing Kurenai flowers to brighten her mood, but is deterred firstly by his surety that the gesture would be fruitless, and secondly by his uncertainty of what to choose. And so he compromises: in place of flowers, he does chores. They had been simple at first, matters of strength and exertion that could have placed the baby at risk, but as of late Kurenai has asked that he accompany her on errands, mostly to medical appointments.

And he has agreed, though he has mentioned it to no one. His absences from regular jounin haunts, he suspected, go mostly unnoticed.

They arrive at the mission control room in companionable silence. Chouji follows Shikamaru inside.

"Good afternoon, boys," Iruka smiles brightly. Framed by the sinking sun streaming through the window in the back of the mission control office he looks as young and vigorous as Shikamaru remembers him.

"Hey, Iruka-sensei," he replies, "anything in for us?"

"Let's see." The chuunin swivels in his chair.

"How's it going, you two?" he asks over his shoulder as he sifts through mountains of incoming scrolls. "I haven't seen you around in ages."

"Going okay," Shikamaru answers, his hands concealed in his pockets.

Chouji smiles.

"It's going pretty great for me. How are you, Iruka-sensei?"

"I can't complain," he answers, turning back to them. "Looks like you two have some work ahead of you, though."

Shikamaru lazily scoops up the scroll offered to him and unravels it by its edge. Chouji unfurls his between his hands and begins reading.

Still, it is the latter who notes the arrival of another shinobi, despite Shikamaru's evidently strained attention. He gently nudges his friend aside to make way for the other.

"Huh?"

Shikamaru looks up into the left ear of Neji Hyuuga, who seems slightly troubled by their proximity.

"Oh – hey."

Neji pauses in his conversation with Iruka to regard Shikamaru from the corner of his eye.

"_Hey_," he echoes crisply, then returning his attention to Iruka.

Shikamaru shrugs off the predictable iciness and winds the scroll around his finger.

"That's it, eh?" he probes. Neji has moved aside to look over his directives, and does not give any indication of noticing the presence of his peers.

Iruka makes one last pass through the incoming scrolls stacked behind him, and hesitates as though he has remembered something. He peers briefly over his shoulder.

"That's it for now," he confirms, "but the Lady Hokage mentioned that she would like to see you."

"Me?" Shikamaru repeats. For the scarcest of moments, his lips remain slightly parted in surprise.

"That's right," Iruka nods, turning to face them with that same sunny smile, "as soon as possible."

His expression is inscrutable. A reflexive cold sensation overtakes Shikamaru's stomach and he struggles to catalogue the faces of loved ones from most recently seen to last.

"Is she, uh, in? Now, I mean?"

Iruka glances up at a wall-mounted clock and gives an ambivalent shrug.

"She may be. If you're going to try today, you should get going."

Shikamaru mumbles his way through an expression of gratitude and departs, steeling himself for terrible news.

Chouji thanks Iruka more properly, and waves to him and his lingering comrade as he leaves.

Having not been summoned himself, he knows it would not be appropriate to follow Shikamaru. But his disposition will not allow him to stray far without seeing that the other is all right. He instead seats himself in the jounin standby station and waits, fingers drumming lightly on his knees, for Shikamaru to pass by in the corridor.

Though he is not by any stretch a jounin, Chouji does not worry that he will be unceremoniously evicted from the room. His greater concern is to catch up with Shikamaru in case he suddenly finds himself in need of someone to lean on; and on some level he knows, humbly but surely, that anyone who arrives will be happy to see him.

* * *

Most of the florescent lights that typically illuminate the corridors leading to the Hokage's office have been shut off for the day, shading the hallways in an uncomfortable dimness. Shikamaru moves swiftly, his thoughts stirring.

When he arrives in the small waiting area outside Tsunade's door, Shizune appears to be packing up her things for the day.

"Iruka-sensei said I've been summoned," he announces. Shizune looks over her shoulder, then nods to him, settling her bag down by her feet.

"Let me ask if she will see you," she explains as she slips through the imposing doors into the Hokage's office. In her absence, Shikamaru shifts uncomfortably in place.

Long moments pass. Motes of dust float suspended in rays of dying sun. Shikamaru concentrates on them to maintain his composure.

"Lady Tsunade will see you," Shizune says, emerging again from the office. She does not follow him in, which bodes unsettlingly. He hears her return to gathering her things as the heavy doors settle closed behind him.

Tsunade is half-leaning, half-sitting on her desk, her arms crossed over her conspicuous breasts.

"Good of you to come around," she greets with a crooked smile, "didn't think I'd be seeing you any time soon."

"Has something happened?" Shikamaru demands.

"Eeh?" Tsunade appears genuinely perplexed. "Calm down. Nothing's _happened. _I've got an offer for you."

Shikamaru's tension transitions rapidly to curiosity, and he feels slightly dizzy with the change. His brows knit together, and he mutters something under his breath, vaguely annoyed.

"An offer?" he inquires. Tsunade nods, still smiling.

"There's a speech for this," she says, "but it's Friday night and I don't have time for it. So: Shikamaru, you're invited to join ANBU. Yes or no?"

He looks at her blankly.

"ANBU?"

"That's right," she replies lightly, "ANBU. Payment will be made through your existing accounts. You can leave at any time, but you can't re-join. And missions can be unpredictable."

She watches the sunlight glint off her red lacquered nails in the silence that follows. Shikamaru turns the offer over in his head: it certainly does wonders for the ego, but it sounds like an incredible inconvenience.

"Can I skip missions? Decline them, I mean."

"Not without a damn good reason. I put the directives together myself, and I handpick the operatives. So."

Shikamaru turns his gaze upward in thought. Tsunade looks him over, and then pushes off from her desk.

"I'll need an answer before you go," she remarks.

"I'll do it," he decides, though his tone wavers somewhat. Immediately he feels as though he has leapt from a precipice he cannot return to.

"Good!" Tsunade claps a hand on his shoulder as she passes, and squeezes slightly. "See Ibiki Monday morning about that tattoo. There's a tattoo. You knew that, right? Well, he'll know why you're stopping in. So. Get to it."

She breezes by and he watches her go. After a moment, Shizune peeks in the door, blinking owlishly.

"You can go now," she says.

"Right."

* * *

Shikamaru gets to it, though it isn't in his nature to be so prompt: Monday morning, he shuffles into the Office of the Konohagakure Intelligence Division.

There is a central information desk, but it is empty. Shikamaru approaches slowly and peers over its edge, hoping for some sign of someone. There are neatly stacked charts and clipboards, and he wonders if he should have made an appointment.

"What're you up to, kid?"

His spine snaps ramrod straight and he whips his head to the side. Inoichi quirks a brow.

"I had – I'm supposed to be here," Shikamaru states quickly, and then feels immediately ridiculous.

"Oh yeah?" Inoichi is grinning. "Care to say why?"

"It's about a tattoo," the boy replies.

"Ah, well. Right this way."

Inoichi directs him down a curving, brightly lit corridor with a sweeping gesture of his arm. Shikamaru follows from the front, glancing over his shoulder now and again to make sure he is headed in the right direction. He shoves his hands into his pockets and walks until he is told to stop.

"Here you are."

A nondescript metal door to his left has no handle, only a keypad. Inoichi leans in close, shielding his hand from view, and taps in a series of numbers. Locks release, and he nudges the door open.

"Ibiki? You decent?"

The scrape of metal on tile signals the larger man's arrival.

"Yeah, what? Oh."

His looming form fills the doorway. Inoichi gives Shikamaru a paternal push forward.

"Shikamaru is here for his tattoo," he announces, and Ibiki nods.

"Right," Ibiki replies, "I've been expecting you. Give me a minute."

He disappears. Shikamaru feels like livestock marked for branding. He spares a brief glance at Inoichi, who seems rather amused with the situation.

"Don't get nervous," the man advises him, grinning smugly, "it's hell if you're tensed up."

Ibiki reappears, escorting another shinobi. The boy was pale and dressed in colorless clothes, and it took Shikamaru a moment to recognize him under the harsh florescent lights.

"Neji?"

Ibiki stands aside as Neji exits, folding his sleeve down over a fresh cloth bandage.

"Remember," Ibiki calls after him, "mild soap."

Neji mutters acknowledgement and quickens his pace. Ibiki turns his attention, now, to Shikamaru.

"ANBU now, eh? Well, step right up."

Shikamaru swallows and follows him into the cold, antiseptically white office. The heavy metal door closes and locks behind them, and a tiled chamber reminiscent of an operating room comes into view. A reclining chair in the center of the chamber is stationed under a bright hanging light, shielded by a stainless steel fixture. Nearby, a rolling stool awaits Ibiki, along with a tray of tools.

"Have a seat."

He does.

"Which arm do you want?"

"You right handed or left?"

"Left."

"Then your right."

This doesn't bode well, but Shikamaru tugs his sleeve up anyhow, and settles his right arm on the chair's rest.

"So, Neji too, eh?" he attempts conversation to remain relaxed. Ibiki draws near on the rolling stool.

"I'm not technically allowed to say," he answers, "but."

_But. _

"How long will this put me out for?"

"It won't," Ibiki assures him, "it'll just be sore. Why?"

The first dig of the needle into his flesh causes him to grit his teeth.

"Same old drag. Errands tomorrow –" he hisses as Ibiki tugs the needle downward, "—mission the next day."

Ibiki grunts in agreement: life as a shinobi is busy and fraught with scores of obligations. Little more needs to be said on the subject, which is fortunate for Shikamaru, as he has nothing more to say.

* * *

By the next morning, the soreness has diminished from a constant sting to a dull ache. Shikamaru observes all of Ibiki's directions meticulously: he showers and does not bathe; washes with mild soap and lukewarm water; and he says nothing of it to anyone, even his family.

And this final directive is the most difficult, though Shikamaru does not typically disclose the details of his daily life to anyone in particular. Still he feels isolated by the loss of the option.

He eats alone at his kitchen counter. Already the last melons and berries of summer have either spoiled or been consumed; in their place, he finds new pears and apples.

Warm sunlight floods the streets, relatively empty at midmorning. Shikamaru can feel the last traces of the cool night wind persisting in the shadows, and he suspects the best days of the season are now in the past.

Kurenai does not live far from him. Her apartment is a tidy ground-floor unit at the end of a long hall of doors, and by now he knows the woman at the front desk well enough to pass by unhindered.

When he reaches her door he hesitates because the memory of that day is still near, and it catches him off his guard when he has temporarily forgotten his grief.

_I should've brought her flowers._

He shakes the thought and knocks softly.

"Just a minute," Kurenai calls. Shikamaru waits as she disables a number of locks and twice as many traps: she does not feel as safe as she once did, and the thought troubles him more than he would admit.

"Good morning, Shikamaru," she greets as she opens the door. In her civilian clothes she seems smaller, even with her growing belly. She steps into the corridor and locks her door behind her, shifting her purse to the opposite shoulder.

They walk in silence to the sunny street. After a few paces, Shikamaru speaks.

"How're you feeling, Kurenai-sensei?" Each time he uses the honorific, it feels awkward: he's not the type to speak in a formal register, and their circumstances make the use of _sensei _read more condescending than respectful. On some level he knows that Kurenai is not his teacher and that she is not relating to him as a student, but as a man.

"I'm alright," she replies slowly, "I'm just…"

"Aa."

People look at them as they pass: first at her, then at him, then at her belly, then at his face. Some sneer, others stare. Shikamaru hopes that she does not see, but she seems to, and walks with her head down.

He tries to think of something to say.

"So this is just a check-up, yeah?" he supplies finally, with some difficulty.

"It's an ultrasound," she explains, and then, noting his blank expression, adds: "so, yes. Just a check-up."

"Will it, uh, hurt?"

They turn a corner and the sidewalk narrows; Shikamaru steps aside and gestures for her to walk ahead of him. He follows close behind.

"No," she says, and though he cannot see her face he thinks she is slightly smiling, "it's just taking pictures."

"Ah. Well, do you get to keep them?"

"You do," she replies. He watches as she brings a hand up to her belly.

They enter the automatic sliding doors of the clinic to the sound of chattering and infants' crying. Shikamaru follows Kurenai to the check-in desk and feels at once foolish for doing so; he deposits himself in a nearby chair as she gives her information to the receptionist.

Eyes travel to him from around the waiting room. He sinks into his chair and hunkers down in his flak jacket, hoping that nobody he knows will happen to stop in.

Kurenai returns after a moment and settles slowly into the empty chair beside him.

"It should only take half an hour, but if you need to be somewhere…"

"I'll wait," Shikamaru assures her, almost unthinking.

And when her name is called and she rises with effort, he remains in place, his arms crossed over his chest, knees parted, feet planted firmly on the floor. His new tattoo throbs vaguely under his sleeve.

_What a pain…_

He catches the glance of some expectant mother and she looks hurriedly away. Shikamaru rolls his eyes.

But he stays all the same.

* * *

"I need to go."

Hatsue gazes at his back as he sits up in bed.

"Why?" She twists the sheets in her fingers and draws them up over her stomach, where Neji's semen is cooling in faint white pools. "Hiashi won't be back for hours."

"I have work tomorrow," Neji answers evenly. He does not look back at her as he stands and retrieves his yukata from the corner he shed it in earlier.

"Oh," she murmurs. She reaches for her kimono, discarded at the bedside, and covers her bare breasts. Neji moves wordlessly, remotely; the motions of their affair have become rote.

"So. Until next time."

"When will you be back?" she asks, peering up meekly through the smooth curtain of her hair.

"Within the week," he says, and as he steps into the cool autumn night he realizes that an answer is likely more than she would receive from her husband. For sometime he has supposed that she agreed to the affair for such reasons: a lack of tenderness for those with gentle dispositions, he knows, can be fatal. But he had never thought himself tender until he had seen the sort of unbearable indifference his uncle is capable of.

And still he feels nothing in particular for her. She is his aunt, and the mother of his cousins, but the sentiments typically reserved for affairs – passion, lust, obsession – are conspicuously absent. His slipping into her room when Hiashi is away is nothing more than a petty rebellion.

The last fireflies of summer linger in the dark courtyard. They twinkle, shimmer and fade above the raked sand, and their decline is the harbinger of cold. Neji easily hops the railing of the verandah to cross to his family's section of the Hyuuga compound.

He enters his home undeterred and passes by the open doors of empty rooms, gaping like the sockets of hollow skulls. His mother is somewhere; he isn't sure where. She makes herself scarce and says little. Sometimes she mends his uniforms, but she takes them while he is sleeping, and returns them before he wakes.

In the bathroom he kneels on the hardwood floor and draws a bath. Steam rises as soon as the clear thin stream of water pours forth from the faucet, and he stands to shed his yukata and step in.

As he lowers himself into the rising water a sigh he had not known himself to be containing erupts from his lips. Slowly, his muscles relax, and he is again confronted with the strange unfamiliarity of his body, newly adult. Hard lines of muscle have replaced the soft shapelessness of youth, and where the base of his belly formerly gave way to pale skin and a modest sex, he now runs his fingers through a soft nest of black curls, and sweeps the remainder of Hatsue's lubrication from his half-hard penis.

This body – a _man's _body – is both the property of the main house and his only weapon against it. When Hatsue had first approached him, feeble and bloodless as her attempts at seduction has been, he had thought he would feel much more self-satisfied having slept with her than he does.

Because even in the midst of their coitus, there are the little humiliations of his status: he cannot finish inside her, for the risk is too great; and he cannot suck her nipples or breasts, for Hiashi will recognize any marks not his own. During their first few times together he thought those privations made the sex feel perfunctory and bland; now, however, he has begun to suspect that he has less of a taste for women than he once believed.

Neji leans back and submerges his head in the water, soaking his hair before he rises to wring it out. The new ANBU tattoo smarts lightly on his shoulder, and he takes care to keep it above the water.

Tomorrow's mission is regular duty, not ANBU, and will involve him working with Nara, Akimichi, and Tenten; among them all, he trusts Tenten the most. She is effective, and difficult to distract, which is more than he can say for either of the men assigned to the mission.

But the money is good, not that he needs it. He relishes it though, for what it represents: a window, should the opportunity present itself, to a life of his own.

And this, he knows, is fantasy. But he will go all the same.

* * *

**That's all until next time! I'm writing now, so it should be up soon. Please let me know what you think! **


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